


Our Shadows Whisper (what our words can not)

by Crawlingthroughashes



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Bluepulse, Dark, M/M, moded!Jaime, onmode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crawlingthroughashes/pseuds/Crawlingthroughashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bart looks into a pair of soulful brown eyes, wondering if there's still a soul left in there, or even just a shadow of the person Jaime was? Collection of moded!Jaime/Dark Bluepulse prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Shadows Whisper (what our words can not)

Bart's life is an endless blur of day and night. He's tired of it, too. There's nothing new, nothing exciting or strange about the past. It's all just routine now. And he wants it to end. His heart feels heavy in his chest, sinking lower and lower, like the sun as it's blotted out by night. He wishes it would just end. There's too much pain in the world, too much hurt and anguish, and he wonders why people seem to forget that heroes need saving too. Coils of anxiety work their way from his mind to his chest, spiraling down his arms and legs, leaving him numb and cold all over. He shivers from a nonexistent breeze, despite how warm the setting sun is on his face. Every shudder his heart gives, every thought that screams at him, every muffled sob is evidence of his failure.

This wasn't supposed to happen, and this certainly wasn't the way things were supposed to be. This was wrong. This was all so wrong. Bart feels like he's going to be sick. The words "this is all your fault," rattle around in his skull, and his stomach roils with nausea. A harsh, choked sounds works its way up his throat, but he can't discern whether it's a sob or scream. Either way, it's the kind of sound you never want to hear.

He wants a pair of strong arms to encircle him. He wants to card his fingers through ebony hair. He wants to look into a pair of brown eyes and hear "It's going to be alright," from a husky voice. He wants to whisper sweet-nothings—why is it called that, anyways? Sweet-everythings seems like a much more fitting name—as he drowns in their embrace. But he can't Because Jaime's not here. He's on the Reach's billboards, on the newsfeeds, standing on podiums and reciting blatant lies to the people listening. It's enough to make Bart want to throw-up. Worse yet, he knows this is his fault. He failed. A generation of dreams and hopes rested on his shoulders, but the possibility of a better future, a different future, has crashed. And not crashed as in 'crash', because if something is crash, it's basically the epitome of everything good and cool and awesome. No, what he means is, crashed as in so-totally-moded.

Bart tastes bile every time he hears the name "Blue Beetle", every time he sees the name unspoken on the lips of his teammates. His head feels foggy; an after effect of the concussion he got when Blue Beetle knocked him out with the purple rock. Though technically, it wasn't a rock, it was a crystal key, but... Rock. He might as well call it a rock. Coupled with the fogginess and sluggish feeling he experiences every time he attempts to form a coherent thought, is the undeniable ache in his chest. He's tried calling Jaime. His calls never get through; just as his words don't when they confront the Reach in person. But it's worth calling him, if only to hear his voice mail. As lame as it sounds, it kind of helps hearing Jaime's voice. It reminds Bart that Blue Beetle was good, that it wasn't all a perpetuated lie. Some of it was real. And somehow, between the exchanges of "hermano" and "crash", and shared Chicken Whizees, Jaime managed to slip through the cracks in Bart's armor. The fake smiles on Bart's part were no longer fake; the forced laughs no longer forced. The brushes of skin were no longer only so Bart could give the impression that he was comfortable around Jaime; but because he liked touching him. Even something as simple as a gaze held several seconds too long made Bart's pulse skyrocket. Bart wanted to be with Jaime; not to protect him, or keep an eye on him, to make sure he didn't go on-mode, but because he wanted to. Somehow, this makes the pain just a little bit more real.

"Hey," a voice says softly, jarring Bart from his thoughts. Bart opens his eyes (he can't really remember when he closed them) and tries to find the source of the voice. He already knows who it is, but he doesn't want to rule out the possibility that he imagined it. Bart is standing on a cliff overlooking the city skyline (he can't really remember when or why he came here), but the cacophony of noises from the city are quieter from up here. The rumble of car engines and horns, the tumult of chattering voices is almost nonexistent. It's almost peaceful up here. Almost, but not quite.

Bart looks around to find him, but everything is blurry through his tears. He blinks a few times to focus his watery vision. This is the first time he's cried in a long time, but the tightness in his chest, the constriction in his throat, is all too familiar. Finally, he is able to make out the details of Jaime's face. And it really is Jaime's face; not the ugly blue-and-black armor. That in itself is like a punch to the gut. That demon shouldn't be wearing his best friend's face.

"I got your message," the voice adds, husky and quiet, and the Spanish accent is palpable. His tone is sincere, his eyebrows knitted into s genuine look of concern. Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe?

"Jaime," Bart whispers, and he hates himself. Hates how frail and raw he sounds, hates how weak and vulnerable he is for loving Jaime, but most of all, he hates how when Jaime opens his arms, he leans into them. The arms are warm and familiar—there's no denying that. He feels like Jaime is stealing the last of his strength, wearing him down piece by piece, until all he can do is cry. He cries on Jaime's shoulder, and nuzzles into the soft fabric of Jaime's hoodie. He knows he's stupid and weak, but his fingers are itching with the need for contact, so he slowly, slowly, runs his hands through Jaime's hair, and has to bite back a sigh when Jaime does the same to him. A part of him screams that Jaime shouldn't have known to find him here, that the scarab technology either tracked his cell phone, or Jaime's been watching him for a while. Now, however, he can't bring himself to care.

He lets Jaime's warmth envelop him, steady his heart, and support his body, which for some reason no longer seems able to stand on its own.

"I love you," Bart whispers against Jaime's skin.

He ignores how Jaime doesn't whisper "I love you" back. He pretends that when Jaime answers with an almost smug, "I know," it's the same thing. Even though it's not. A moment later, and Bart is being held arms length away from his former boyfriend. Are they still boyfriends? They never technically broke up, but at the same time, he's not completely sure they were ever together.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

His words trace down Bart's spine like an icy finger. He nods so fast it's a blur. It's not Jaime who's asking; it's not Jaime who's here in front him. He knows that. The Jaime in front of him is smiling in a disgustingly satisfied way, and the Jaime Bart loves would never be smiling so soon after seeing Bart cry. He wants to say know, wants to call in the Team because this could be the only chance they get to stop Blue Beetle, but Bart's not sure he's ready for everything that entails. And it hurts too much to say no.

When Jaime's lips meet his, the speedster feels all of his anguish and anxiety ebb away. All he can focus on is the way Jaime's frame melts against his own, how one of Jaime's hands cups the back of his neck. As Jaime's tongue meets his, and Jaime's lips move forcefully against his own, it occurs to him that Jaime wants him as desperately as he want Jaime.

The kiss is on Jaime's terms, and he controls it with unwavering confidence. Bart can't say he really minds, though a distant part of him notes that this is a molotov cocktail recipe for disaster. Soon, a pair of hands are digging into his sides, moving up and down his body, before settling on finally on his hipbone. The kiss wasn't chaste to begin with, but somehow grows more hungry than before. Jaime's hands slip under his shirt, tracing shapes on his bare skin. Bart shudders violently, his already quick pulse beating even faster. Bart's lithe arms instinctively encircle Jaime's neck. He's starting to feel dizzy from the lack of oxygen, but Jaime isn't stopping, so neither is he. Jaime presses open-mouthed kisses along Bart's jaw, down his neck, and Bart feels dizzy for an entirely different reason. A pair of wings are protruding from Jaime's back, and only when Jaime wrenches his face away, does he realize that they've already left the ground.

Jaime is partially covered in blue-and-black armor, but his face is exposed, and that's all Bart cares about. Jaime's armored fingers caress his skin. "Mmm," he sighs, "you're so perfect."

Bart's bottle green eyes lock on Jaime's brown ones, which are often hidden behind amber lenses.

Grinning, Jaime continues, "but I really hate you, you know." Bart does know. He gave Jaime something to lose. And Jaime did the same to him. It hurts, looking into Jaime's soulful brown eyes, and wondering if there's still a soul in there, somewhere. He contemplates telling Jaime that he loves him (he always will), but what good would that do?

"You're so good, Bart," Jaime murmurs, and Bart feels like a bug about to go splat. "I'm sure you'll think of something before you hit the ground. Either way, say hi to the Team for me."

Jaime's grip on Bart slackens, and he can feel his heart in his throat as he falls. It's a strange thing, falling. Exhilarating and heart-stopping all at once. Jaime's right though; he does think of something before he hits the ground. Using his superspeed, he manages to slow his falling speed and propel himself down slowly, or something. He's not completely sure. All he knows is that when he finally touches the ground, he throws-up. He still feels sick. He also wants this all to end. He can't stand this particular kind of hell anymore. He's trapped inside his own mind, and it's not a very nice place to be. He wants this to end. He also wishes it was different.


End file.
